


This Is It

by detective_prince



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Attempted Suicide, Burning, Gen, naomi is in the background for a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 01:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detective_prince/pseuds/detective_prince
Summary: Beyond Birthday is ready to put an end to it all, to get what he's wanted.--It is somewhat graphic in terms of the burning, just a warning!





	This Is It

With a shaking breath, Beyond jumped off the hotel room chair, the sprinkler tampered with. It, along with the room’s fire alarm, would not go off. Perfect. Everything was perfect. Misora had followed him every step of the way, exactly as he expected.

Here he was, his final moments. This was it. He imagined it would feel more grand. He stood on the edge of the line between failure and success and only he could tip the scales. His death was the final brush stroke needed to complete his masterpiece. So… why does he feel this knot curling in on itself in the pit of his stomach? Beyond shook his head, proceeding to laugh that _inhuman_ laugh he’d spent so long practicing.

He’s on the edge of victory. This is a time to celebrate. And yet, when he grabs the can of gasoline, his hands tremble in a way he hadn’t thought possible. A deep breath. “This has to be done. No one else can do what you’re going to do.”

With that, he managed to steel himself. No one else could do this. No one else could create an unsolvable crime, could leave L chasing after a ghost. It could only be him. His resolve set, he shuts his eyes tightly and coats himself from head to toe in gasoline. It soaks through his white shirt with ease and leaves it clinging tightly to his skin, nose wrinkling as the harsh scent of gas fills his nose. Drops of fluid cascade from his hair to run along his face, he hisses as it gets into his eyes. It burns, burns, _burns_. He coughs, sputtering as he tastes it on his tongue and tries desperately not to gag. Quick, he has to end this quick.

This is it.

Beyond grabs the matchbook from the desk and with fumbling fingers, strikes it against the side. He struggles for a few moments, eyes bloodshot and blurry, but the flame flickers to life on the little stick. He lets out something of a choked sob as he drops the match in the puddle of gasoline at his feet. He jumps when the flame catches his feet, not quite ready to face the warm embrace of his tool of choice. It feels more cruel than he expected. But how much can one really expect when they’ve asked for flame to carry them away?

He grits his teeth as the blaze catches against the hem of his gasoline soaked jeans, dropping the match book into the flames as they eat their way up his clothing and sear into his flesh. Beyond can’t help it once it starts to burn through the layers of his skin, he screams. He screams with an agony he’d never felt before. He screams louder than when he discovered A’s corpse swinging from the ceiling fan. Because nothing has ever hurt this bad and it’s what he deserves.

He deserves the way his flesh bubbles and hair crackles under the harsh licks of flame that consumes him. He deserves the way everything burns, how every nerve is lighting up in pain. He deserves to be enveloped in a never ending heat. He deserves to spend his last minutes flailing and screaming because he’s a monster. He’s killed. He’s killed for petty reasons, he deserves to die. He deserves an undignified death.

Beyond isn’t sure when the sound of his own screams stop ringing in his ears, but his body is red and raw and burning. Everything is sensitive and raw and burning, his form convulsing. His instincts tell him to do what he can to stop the flame, he fights them, instead collapsing into a corner and writhing there. He’s dry heaving from the scent of burning hair, like sulfur trapped in his lungs along with the smoke. He wants to be dead already. How much longer does he have to suffer?

It’s moments like this, where he can do nothing but suffer that he wishes he could see the numbers above his head.

He’s losing consciousness when the door is thrown open, feeling relief take over what little part of him isn’t panicking from pain. He’s barely holding on, only grunting when he thinks he hears his alias.

Everything goes black.

When he wakes up in the hospital several days later covered in skin grafts, he sobs.


End file.
